


I Will Share Your Road

by lotrfan



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: After the Helcaraxë, Brothers, Expectations, Gen, Loss, Mentions of Fëanor's death, Siblings, Teitho Fanfiction Contest, coming to terms, mentions of Maedhros capture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 12:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15025064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrfan/pseuds/lotrfan
Summary: The road from Tirion is harsh and difficult but Nolofinwë finds his arrival in Beleriand far different than he expected.





	I Will Share Your Road

**Author's Note:**

> Written for last month's Teitho contest for "Expectation" prompt.

I Will Share Your Road

 

There was much Nolofinwë encountered, on the long travail from Tirion, that he had not expected.

He had not expected to scale the hill above Alqualondë and see the strife and battle overwhelming the shoreline. He had never conceived that he would be battling the Teleri, cutting them down whilst knee deep in the once tranquil sea water of that bay. He had not contemplated the fear that would grip him as he saw his children engaged in combat on the blood-drenched sand near him. 

Nolofinwë had not anticipated his younger brother coming with them in the first place. It had not come as much surprise that the even-tempered, ethical Arafinwë would return to Tirion at Mandos’ words. Arafinwë had not taken part in the slaughter but had not the heart to go on after it. 

Nolofinwë had never imagined his golden brother would ever countenance being parted from the children he adored. 

Perhaps he had not—it seemed that they had left him behind rather than the other way around. Nolofinwë would come to miss Arafinwë’s intellect, steady presence and rational mind many times over the coming years.

Nolofinwë had known his own personal differences with Fëanaro, knew they were of a similar temperament that often put them at odds with each other. But Nolofinwë had still trusted Fëanaro; he had meant the words he had pledged to his older brother the day their world went dark— _“half-brother in blood, full brother in heart I will be. Thou shalt lead and I will follow.”_

He had taken that vow in front of all the Valar—to follow Fëanaro. And follow him he had—out of Tirion, along the shore to Alqualondë, to the bloody battle that rendered them forever Exiled.

Nolofinwë had followed him to the encampment by the sea, to patiently await the return of the commandeered Teleri ships, so that he and his people could then travel after Fëanaro into the unknown darkness of Arda and seek revenge for Finwë’s brutal murder.

He would not believe it at first. Had not allowed himself to suspect what was causing the delay that left his people muttering to each other—snatches of words reaching him that he could not, would not countenance.

He stood upon the rocky shore, his far sight searching for any sign of the white-hulled ships' return. 

Nolofinwë felt the first icy shard of betrayal when he saw the thin plume of smoke. By the time the red light of the conflagration on the far shore reached his eyes, he knew his brother had been faithless.

Every step across the ice, every moment they risked their lives, every instance where they lost a companion, a wife, a child—Nolofinwë thought of his brother’s treachery. Of the day when he would face Fëanaro again—having fulfilled his vow to follow he would be free to unleash his pent-up wrath and excoriate his brother as he so richly deserved.

He could be patient. He could wait.

He pictured the encounter in a thousand ways a thousand times during the endless days on the frozen desolation of the Helcaraxë. Nolofinwë ran through the gamut—fiery anger, cold disdain, heated excoriation, icy fury. He knew them all.

Nolofinwë had never foreseen the sheer terror that would grip him as he watched his sons and daughter swing their swords at unexpected and murderous foes as they drew to the end of their journey across the Ice. He would never forgive Fëanaro for the loss of his youngest son.

But a new golden light rose in the sky the day their crossing was completed and the host of Nolofinwë once more felt warmth touch their faces and soft, green grass below their feet. He led the host, lessened but still hardy, unbroken survivors of the bitter crossing. Their silver and blue banners unfurled in the gentle breezes and their weapons glittered in the bright light of the new-made Sun.

Stern-faced, Nolofinwë led his people past the very gates of Angband itself, commanding his heralds to blow their horns in challenge to their great foe. They passed the mighty, towering reaches of Thangorodrim and progressed, making their way through Hithlum, having heard from the Grey Elves that the sons of Fëanor could be found by Lake Mithrim.

Flanked by his sons, Findekano and Turukano, Nolofinwë made his way to the northern shores of the lake—to find his brother and his nephews. He would face Fëanaro now, to lay the blame for the brutal crossing of the Helcaraxë and the suffering of his people squarely on the shoulders of his faithless brother.

But the host of Fëanaro withdrew to the far side of the lake at their arrival, robbing him of his thunderous confrontation. Nolofinwë ordered their camp set up in the remains of the Fëanorian encampment, his eyes ever straying to the southern shore and his brother’s host across the lake.

By morning he had reached his decision. If Fëanaro would not face him then Nolofinwë would search him out and make his feelings clear about his brother’s actions. “Come,” he said to his sons and daughter, and to his nephew Findarato as well. “I have words for my brother. They may think to draw away and put the lake between us but we did not brave the Grinding Ice to stare at each other across this water. A greater expanse than this sundered us and at my brother’s will. I will not suffer at his whim further. It is time to make our presence known.” 

Their company set out on foot, Nolofinwë in the lead, his children and nephew at his side and his personal guard at his heels. They were almost half-way to the other side of the lake when they heard the horns ring out ahead of them. They soon perceived a company making their way towards them, riders bearing Fëanaro’s Star on their banners.

Makalaurë was at their head and Nolofinwë clenched his jaw in annoyance. Was there no end to his brother’s taunting? Fëanaro did not deign to meet with him but sent a second son to meet a second son. There was a message here and he did not like it. Nelyo would have been a lesser slight. 

Nolofinwë lifted his chin and set his cold glare in Makalaurë’s direction, taking in his nephew’s pale face and troubled countenance but paying it little heed.

“We have heard tidings of your perilous crossing, Uncle, and we bid you welcome to this land,” Makalaurë’s voice, trained for years, carried across the divide. “Our camp we leave to you. It is well-supplied for your needs. We have set our own across the way, to give you space and peace.”

Nolofinwë's eyes scanned Makalaurë’s company but he saw no sign of any of Fëanaro’s other sons. “We have made our camp,” Nolofinwë said. “And we welcome the warmer climate. But leave the small talk, Makalaurë. It suits you not to dissemble. You know I seek your father and would have words with him. I have had enough delay. Bring me to him, for I have much to say.” 

If anything, his nephew’s face grew paler and the first tendril of trepidation swirled around Nolofinwë. Nevertheless, he persisted. “Is he not here with you?” He frowned as he spoke. “Have you settled apart from the main host?” His eyes drifted to the southern shore again. It did not seem so, from the numbers he could see camped there.

“I bid you come for counsel in my tent, Uncle. We have much to discuss,” Makalaurë said.

“I have nothing to say in secret, nephew. If your father will not consent to face me then I will not cross the threshold of your camp to wait for his whim. I have been deceived before and I will not be deceived this time. Tell Fëanaro he knows where to find me. I will not wait on him again.” Nolofinwë made to turn and walk back to their camp but Makalaurë slid off his steed and stumbled across the divide. 

He could feel Findekano and Turukano step protectively in front of him but he waved them aside as Makalaurë stopped a few paces from him. 

They stared each other down until Makalaurë briefly closed his eyes and then opening them stood straighter, chin up, shoulders back—every inch Fëanaro’s son. “I regret to inform you that my father is not here to hear your words. He was lost to us in the first battle waged against our great enemy.” Makalaurë’s voice, melodic from his youth, sounded harsh to Nolofinwë’s ears as he tried to comprehend the words his nephew spoke. He felt the rigidity in both his sons’ stance as the import of what Makalaurë had imparted struck them. 

But Makalaurë was still speaking. “It was a feint at parley,” he continued. “After father’s death. But Nelyo would not hear of any other going in his stead so he set off himself. That is how we lost him as well.” 

Nolofinwë heard Findekano’s sharp intake of breath, then the cut-off exclamation from him as Turukano gripped his older brother’s forearm to stop his movement towards their cousin.

“I lead our host now,” Makalaurë said. “So anything you would say to father or Nelyo, direct to me in their stead.”

Later he could not recall what words he had said in reply or how they had found themselves making their way back to their camp. He only recalled Findarato stepping forward to grip Makalaurë’s shoulder and softly speak to him as the rest of them stood in stunned dismay.

Somehow Nolofinwë found himself back in his tent—dismissing both his men and his children, unable to face Findekano’s visible grief—not now, not yet. Not while he had yet to come to terms with his own. 

He had so many expectations when he had set out from Tirion—but he had never expected to reach these shores and find Fëanaro dead, gone. 

So many words unsaid. The anger he had held onto all this time was still there but directed in an unexpected way now. Still at Fëanaro, but not for the treachery of the ships—how dare his older brother not be here, how dare he not face him with that elegant, smugly arched brow, that confident gaze, the crisp, perfectly turned phrases that were always so precisely directed at him?

How could Fëanaro not be alive? That brilliant mind, those expressive silver eyes, that tilt of the head when he was about to ask a question, the steadfast strength of the hugs Fëanaro gave—how could that all be gone from this world? 

Nolofinwë had never expected, when he had first set out to cross the Helcaraxë in pursuit of Fëanaro, that when he finally arrived on these far shores he would miss his older brother the most.


End file.
